Why do they always think?
by SciFiNutTX
Summary: Dean gets an idea of how to get a motel room without looking like two brothers on the run. Set immediately after Nightshift, but no spoilers. Now with a second chapter by request.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Obviously I don't own any of these characters. This is just for fun!

**Setting**: After Nightshift, when the boys are on the road running from the FBI.

**Why do they always think…?**

Dean refreshed his grip on the steering wheel, fighting to keep heavy eyelids open. Spotting a roadside motel, he mumbled, "Screw it," and pulled in. Sam was startled awake by the car's lack of motion.

"What, what is it?" he blinked bleary eyes.

"We're getting a room," Dean growled, checking his wallet for a credit card.

"But Dean," Sam shook his head to clear it of sleep cobwebs, "what about the FBI? If you're tired, I'll drive."

One look at his brother told Dean that Sam was in the same state he was – sleep deprived and basically worthless. He shook his head at Sam, "We're getting a room. I have an idea."

"What idea," Sam asked wearily, but Dean's door slammed without an answer. Dean's last couple of ideas had involved poking an old woman stroke victim with a stick and teaming up with a local nutjob who held up a bank to capture a shapeshifter. He was not too confident in his brother's ideas at the moment.

Dean walked heavily to the management office of the small motel. He paused before going inside to wave at Sam. He knew Sam would take it as an order to get their stuff and no doubt would resent it. Dean was counting on both.

He shuffled into the office. It was only about seven in the evening, but they had been on the road for the past 36 hours and he was pretty sure he looked it. He blinked bleary eyes at the woman on duty at the front desk

"Morning," he said.

"Good evening, sir," she corrected him.

He chuckled as though he were embarrassed. "Sorry. We've been on the road a while. Can I get a room for me and my, um, partner?" Dean tugged at his collar as though he were suddenly uncomfortable. He noticed her eyes dart out the glass front doors. He turned to see Sam struggling with both their duffel bags and no doubt cursing him to the high heavens. Dean suppressed a smile.

"Damn it," he slammed a hand down on the counter. She jumped, spinning back around to face him. "I told him not to worry about…" he sighed heavily. "Forget it. What do you have available?"

Still startled, she checked her computer. "Will that be a king sized bed?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation, looking back out the doors. Sam was motioning to him angrily. "Wait a minute. Maybe not." He sighed heavily. "Let me go check."

Dean had to try hard not to chuckle as he walked out the front doors. He allowed his short, sleep-deprived temper take over at the look of exasperation on Sam's face.

"What?" he snapped.

"What do you mean, what?" Sam demanded. "Who the hell do you think you are, ordering me to get your bag? Huh? I'm tired too, you know." Sam's arms were waving through the air as though he expected to take flight.

Dean leaned in close, making sure Sam's back was to the doors and blocked the receptionist's view of him. He stood there for a moment, just staring at Sam.

"What? You want to slug me again?"

"Nah," Dean shook his head. "But you should flap your arms around again like we're arguing."

Sam's red-rimmed eyes narrowed. "I don't flap my arms when I'm angry, Dean."

"Yes you do," was his brother's quick retort.

Sam raised a hand to poke Dean in the chest. "Don't start, Dean. Neither one of us is in the right mood for this."

Dean slapped the hand away. "Don't poke me."

Sam gave him a shove that forced Dean to stumble backwards a few steps. He came in close and whispered, "Perfect" to his brother's startled face.

Dean spun on his heel and marched back inside, allowing his bad temper to show. "Two beds!" he barked, slamming a credit card down on the counter.

The woman shook her head. "That's too bad."

"You're telling me," he fumed, silently pleased with himself. "Oh, let's go take a nice road trip, he said. We can go antiquing, he said." Dean let out a long-suffering sigh. He laid his head down on the counter. "What a disaster."

He felt a soft hand patting him on the shoulder. He looked up, putting as much pain and depression in his tired face as he could muster. "Thank you," he croaked as though he had been on the verge of tears.

She handed over two room card keys, shaking her head sadly. "You poor man. Maybe things will look better in the morning. You two are in room 19, outside and to the left."

"Thank you," he squeezed her hand, "you're very kind." He stuck the two room key cards in his pocket as he walked away, shaking his head.

Outside, Dean handed over the card key. "We're in nineteen. Supposed to be this way." He took his bag from Sam and stalked away, making a production of walking away in a huff in front of the doors.

Sam hurried to catch up. "Dean? Dean!" He caught up with his brother's quick strides. "Dean, what's going on?"

Dean refused to say anything until they were safely inside the room. He tossed his bag on the floor next to one of the beds before collapsing on it. A wide smile crossed his face.

"Let's just say if anyone checks this hotel for two brothers traveling together, they won't find any."

"What?" Sam's eyebrows disappeared behind his long bangs. "Dean? You didn't. You wouldn't. Dean?" But his brother was already breathing deeply, sound asleep. Too tired to argue now, Sam crashed into the other bed and decided to worry about it in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

A good friend of mine from the CW boards said this needed a second chapter. So Denmother, this is for you!!

**Why do they always think…? Pt 2**

There was a soft tapping at the door. Dean groaned in protest. The tapping turned into an insistent rapping. He threw a pillow at his sleeping brother's head.

"What?" Sam looked up from his pillow, blinking bleary eyes.

"Door. Quiet. Shoot to kill." His brother's rough voice said from under several pillows, trying to drown out the noise.

"Fine. You're the one who was all over the news anyway." Sam forced himself out of bed. His feet were leaden against the cheap motel carpet as he dragged them toward the annoying repetitive sound.

Sam grasped the cool metal of the doorknob and jerked the door open. A man dressed in the standard motel uniform, black pants, white shirt and red jacket, stood in the hallway behind a cart.

"What's this?" Sam asked, rubbing the sleep from his eye.

"Compliments of the management, sir." The older man grinned. "Champagne breakfast."

Sam just blinked at the man. "Do you have the right room?"

The man pulled out a paper. "Room nineteen. Occupants two gentlemen." He smiled at Sam. "Sound like you?"

Sam looked at the room number on the door. "Yeah, I guess so."

"May I bring it in then?" The man's grin widened into a broad smile. Sam shrugged as he stood aside, watching in utter confusion as the tray was brought in. From under the tray he brought out a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne. "Should I open this for you, sir?" His eyes searched the room, found Dean with his head buried under the pillows.

"Tsk, tsk. Perhaps this should wait?" He thrust the bottle back into its bucket. "Our manager has also asked me to inform you that if you should wish to change to a room with a king sized bed, there will be no charge for the change. You two have a wonderful day, sir." He threw Sam a mock salute as he exited, closing the door softly behind him.

"Dean!"

"I said I'd shoot to kill!" Dean's voice was muffled under his pillows. Sam promptly knocked them off his face.

"What did you tell these people?" Sam demanded, gesturing angrily to the door.

"What? Nuthin'." He reached for his fallen pillows.

"Nothing, Dean? Nothing? Then why is a fifty year old bellboy delivering a complimentary champagne breakfast to our room?"

"Champagne breakfast?" Dean shot out of bed, rushing over to inspect the tray. "Dude, this is awesome! They even have those little round things you like."

"It's called quiche, Dean. And that's not the point." Sam huffed.

"Quiche, huh?" Dean picked one up and sniffed it. He shrugged, popping it into his mouth. "Not bad," he said around the food in his mouth.

"Dean!" Sam stood with hand on hips.

"Hmm?" Dean was spreading butter on a biscuit. "Dude, it's free. Eat up."

"Dean!"

"What!"

Sam glared at him for a moment. "Nevermind!" He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. He paused in the hall, gathering his thoughts. As he headed back to the registration desk, a smile came over his face. Sam returned to the room fifteen minutes later. He helped himself to some of the food on the cart.

Dean cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "Done with your tantrum now, princess?"

Sam nodded, chewing quietly. There was a knock at the door. "It's for you," he said, turning his back to the door.

Dean shot Sam a quizzical look as he walked over to the door. When he opened it, the woman from yesterday evening was standing there.

"Mister Mahogoff, you didn't tell me it was your anniversary. This hotel has special policies regarding anniversaries."

Dean stood, slack jawed, propped up against the door frame. "Anniversary?" He looked back at Sam. Sam's was hunched over and his shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.

She leaned forward to whisper, "He thought you forgot. Oh, dear. Poor thing."

Dean rubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head. Misinterpreting what it meant, she patted him on the arm. "Here," she pressed an envelope into his hand. "Hopefully this will help." She stepped back and said in a voice loud enough for Sam to hear, "You gentlemen have a wonderful day, now."

Dean closed the door, his eyes throwing daggers at Sam.

Sam was openly laughing now. "So, what'd she give you?" he chuckled.

Dean opened the envelope. Inside were complimentary tickets to the local antique doll museum, a ten percent discount off a romantic dinner coupon, a coupon for the local movie theater, and a map for all the local antique shops. Dean pulled out the dinner coupon and tossed the rest into Sam's lap.

"Looks like your day is all planned out, buddy boy. All I need to do is find a charming young lady who would like to go to dinner." Dean grinned.

Sam cleared his throat. "Um, actually, she called ahead. They're expecting both of us. Candlelight dinner." A wide grin spread across his face. "Violins." Sam chuckled. "And the doll museum is for you and that huge doll collection you have." He waved the complimentary tickets at Dean. "It's supposed to put you in a good mood."

Dean stood looking at his brother for a moment, weighing his options. "Aaagghh!" he leapt across the room, tackling the larger man, knocking both of them to the floor. Sam was still laughing as he fought back. When they finished they sat on the floor breathing heavily.

"Jerk," Sam breathed.

Dean took a deep breath to respond, "Bitch."

Both were chuckling when another rap came on the door. Dean stood while Sam heaved himself off the floor and across his bed, still breathing hard. Dean opened the door slowly, still breathless. "Yeah?"

It was the manager again. She peered inside the room, saw Sam laying across the bed breathing as heavily as Dean, and smiled. She gave Dean's arm a squeeze. "That's why we're called The Lucky Arms. Don't worry, I'll make sure you aren't disturbed." She walked away humming.

"Who was it?" Sam asked, winded, as Dean shut the door.

Dean ran a hand over his head. "Remind me next time to check the name of the place we're staying, okay? This is just too weird."

Sam sat up. "Weird as in…?"

"As in, I don't want to talk about it."

From the expression on Dean's face, Sam knew he should not push it any more. But younger brothers are genetically designed to do just that. "So. When are we leaving for the doll museum?"

Dean's fist practically whistled as it hurtled through the air. Sam barely ducked in time.


End file.
